


lofty aspirations

by Anonymous



Category: National Football League RPF
Genre: M/M, New Year's Eve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:22:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28492332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Time slows down as fireworks begin to boom in the distance. Aaron turns to Pat, colors reflected in his irises like a kaleidoscope.Pat and Aaron ring in the new year together.
Relationships: Patrick Mahomes/Aaron Rodgers
Comments: 6
Kudos: 20
Collections: Anonymous





	lofty aspirations

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve always thought these two were a lot of fun, and then I read [anabel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anabel)’s Yuletide fics for [ohtempora](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohtempora) and became inspired to write something of my own. Please go read anabel’s work if you haven’t! They are absolutely delightful.

It’s not that Pat minds hanging out with Aaron. It’s just that when he’d posed the suggestion following the filming of their latest commercial together, an afterthought tacked on to saying _see ya, been a blast, catch you in 2021_ , he’d been thinking more along the lines of getting shit-faced in a bar, or trading golf swings in the cold winter air, or… or anything other than this, really.

“Are you lost?” Pat asks, staring at the pack of Bud Lights in Aaron’s hand.

“I don’t think so, unless this isn’t actually your house.” Aaron gestures at a vague area behind Pat. “Feel like letting me in?”

Pat looks down his hallway. On the one hand, it’s New Year’s Eve. Surely, Aaron has better things to do, and more important people to do it with. On the other hand, the guy is already here, which means that might not be true, and it’s not as if Pat had anything else going on.

“Uh, sure,” he finally says, then steps aside. Turning Aaron away would be plain dickish at this point.

He follows Aaron into the living room, where he’s got his own assortment of alcohol and the remnants of his late dinner littered all over the coffee table.

“I didn’t know you were coming,” Pat inexplicably feels like explaining for some reason. Nobody promised anybody anything. They’re professionals orbiting the same space, co-workers in a sense, and they’re casual friends, sure. But not casual enough to randomly invite themselves to each other’s houses. Especially not on a night that, arguably, only rivals Christmas Eve in the entire calendar year.

Aaron begins a slow 360 spin, taking in the adjacent kitchen, the furnishings, the balcony that’s still open from where Pat had left it a few minutes ago to answer the door. Aaron’s not an average guy by any means. Maybe it’s due to the inch that Pat has on him, but there’s something about Aaron, well-dressed but not overly so, standing in the middle of Pat’s usually empty living room, that makes him look normal. Too normal. As in, not an all-star quarterback, not a household name kind of normal.

Maybe Pat is overthinking this. Maybe he’s more drunk than he'd originally thought.

“So,” he says, dragging out the vowel, “are you gonna tell me why you’re here, or do I have to guess?”

Aaron is still holding the six-pack. He’s also still looking at the balcony. He gestures to it, a lazy motion. “Mind if we?”

“Why?”

“The countdown.”

“You can’t hear it from here.”

“I meant,” Aaron says, waving a hand generously, “the fireworks.”

Pat stares at him. “What, you don’t have fireworks where you live?”

“Not the ones I’m looking for,” Aaron says, which makes absolutely no sense whatsoever. Is he also drunk? He looks sober enough.

Whatever. If Aaron came all this way just to stand in the freezing cold, more power to him. Pat grabs a jacket off of the couch and follows him outside.

***

He’s halfway through a Bud Light when Aaron shifts next to him.

“Got any resolutions for next year?” Aaron says. He has his sleeves rolled up. If that weren’t crazy enough, he’s got them braced on the icy railing, skin absorbing the condensation like it’s nothing.

Pat shivers just from looking at him. “Not let people into my house in the dead of night, for one.”

Aaron glances at his watch. “It’s a couple minutes to midnight. That’s hardly the dead of night.”

“You asked.”

“Is that it?”

Pat eyes him over another swig of beer. “Okay, Rodgers. What game are you playing here? Trying to get me drunk enough to spill our plays? That won’t work.”

“Just curious,” Aaron says, shrugging. Calm, casual, like he’s trying a bit too hard to come off nonchalant. He pops open his own bottle of beer, letting it dangle from the tips of his fingers.

“It’s only fair that you tell me yours before I tell you mine,” Pat says, grimacing the moment the words fly out of his mouth. It sounds weirder than he’d intended, but it’s out there now. Yeah, he’s definitely feeling the buzz kicking in. Or, maybe that’s just the wind knocking through his bones.

Aaron hums, unfazed. “You’re right. That is fair.”

Pat catches the surface of Aaron’s watch. The second hand is ticking closer to 2021, and he begins counting along with it inside his head. He can’t help it; he sees a clock, he stays on track. He’s got to, if he wants to play ball.

10… 9… 8…

Aaron takes a small sip and starts listing. “Stay healthy. Keep in touch with friends.”

7… 6… 5…

“Kick your ass in the Super Bowl.”

Pat holds in a snort.

4… 3… 2…

Time slows down as fireworks begin to boom in the distance. Aaron turns to Pat, colors reflected in his irises like a kaleidoscope.

“Ask you out.”

… 1.

Pat stands there, frozen on the precipice of the new year, as the seconds run away from him. The sound of blood rushing to his ears outpaces the echoes of the fireworks. All of a sudden, he’s not sure if he knows how to do such a simple thing as counting anymore.

“So?” Aaron prompts. “What do you think?”

Pat swallows. He grips the neck of his bottle, loosens it, feels the ice seep into his pores. “I think those are some lofty aspirations.”

Aaron doesn’t blink. “Yeah? Care to elaborate?”

“Uh, well,” Pat begins. “Health is… it’s a—it’s a hard thing to—it’s a loose cannon. You can take all the precautions you want, but you never know what’s gonna go down on the field. Shit happens. Next thing you know, you’re out for weeks, maybe a month. Friends are… it’s easy to take them for granted, doing what we do, and dealing with our schedules, and—you know. Communication’s hard, but we can only try and hope they reciprocate.”

He has no idea what he’s saying. Hopefully, he’s making something akin to coherent sentences through his bullshit.

Aaron stays silent, waiting for him to continue. He does that on the field, too. Waits and waits and waits like he has all the time in the world, until he sees the perfect opening, an opportune moment to strike. No words are necessary; the result speaks for him.

Luckily for Pat, this next point is easy. He grins, back in his element, and gathers his thoughts, pushing forward. “The Super Bowl… well, our team has more wins than yours does, so we all know who’s kicking whose ass when the time comes. All in all, you’re zero for three so far.”

Aaron takes a swig of his beer. “That’s reasonably well-argued,” he says lightly.

And Pat finds that it’s so effortless to glean the lingering question behind Aaron’s eyes, almost on par with the way he reads the opponent’s defense when he’s in the zone. There are days when the moves come to him, not the other way around. When he scans the field, it’s as though everybody’s moving in slow motion, and he’s waiting for time to catch up.

But nobody ever catches up, and the exhilaration that results from a perfect play is why he loves football. He takes that exhilaration and builds his foundation on it, strengthens his bones and sharpens his wits, makes it the only truth he knows. It’s why he’s the best at what he does.

Aaron is the same. They share a common drive to become better, and that comes with practice, confidence, and self-discipline, but above all, it comes from studying your opponent. Pat’s spent countless hours studying Aaron Rodgers—the pixelated version of him in game film, yes, but also while standing on the sidelines just over a year ago, watching as Aaron demolished their defense. The defeats are when Pat ends up learning the most, because the next time he gets a go at offense, he returns the favor, gives it all back.

What a strange feeling it is, to be so invested in an opponent that never stands on the field with you at the same time. What would it be like to be a linebacker up against Aaron, to have those dark eyes turned onto you with a singular focus, calculating how to strip you down to nothing? Would it be something like this, _anything_ like this, Aaron standing mere inches away and wearing no pads or helmet, only a question?

Pat’s the best at what he does. He’s prepared when he knows what’s coming, but is willing to take chances when he doesn’t.

Aaron is a known entity. Pat knows how the guy plays, knows his preferred passes, and knows who his favorite targets are, even knows the expression that goes along with every decision he makes. But here, off the field and away from the cameras in a space that’s just the two of them, Aaron is different. He’s something new.

Pat takes the chance.

“You’re not winning the Super Bowl, not if I can help it,” he says. “But as for the last thing… seems to me you’ve got an opportunity to accomplish that.”

Aaron takes a visible moment to take in a small breath and consider his options, just like when he’s in the red zone, a few yards out from a touchdown. 3rd down and goal. The play clock is winding down, but he’s still got time on his side.

“Is that a yes, then?” Aaron asks carefully.

“No.”

The ball is stopped inches short. Aaron opens his mouth.

“Because you haven’t actually asked yet,” Pat says. 4th down and goal, just a hair’s length to go.

But because Aaron is Aaron Rodgers, and he’s so fucking good at what he does, he takes the chance. He turns, leaning his weight onto the railing, letting the city lights shine onto his profile. Pat sees the play before it even begins.

“Pat,” Aaron says. “Will you go out with me?”

A simple push forward, and the ball breaks the plane. “Yes,” Pat says. No challenge necessary. Yes.

Aaron reaches out to him, curling his fingers around Pat’s wrist, pressing his thumb to Pat’s pulse point. They rest there together, breathing in the chilly air, letting out the heat in their lungs.

“The year went by too fast,” Aaron finally says, a hint of longing tinting his voice. Pat shivers, this time not from the cold.

“The year’s just started,” he points out.

“Not this year,” Aaron says. “Last year. I told myself I’d do… this by last year.”

New Year’s countdown, ticking of the watch, fireworks in the sky. Pat misses those three things already, but he likes what they brought to him even more.

“Think of it like this,” he says. “Now you can focus all of your attention on figuring out how to lose to me in the least embarrassing way.”

Aaron laughs, bright and low in the night. He runs his hand up Pat’s arm, over his shoulder, tucking it in the crook of his neck, tingling Pat’s skin.

“No witty comeback?” Pat presses, curving into Aaron’s touch. “Have you accepted your inevitable fate?”

“Not a chance. Brace yourself, Patrick Mahomes.” Aaron leans in close. “You’ll be surprised by what I’ve got in store for you.”

Aaron is a known entity. He shows up at people’s doorsteps near midnight, brings beer as an offering, withstands the cold to alarming degrees, and nurses a special expression that goes along with his confessions. Here, on the balcony of Pat’s house, Aaron is different. He’s something new.

Pat takes the chance.


End file.
